


Commute

by Khaelis



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/M, First Meetings, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Soulmates, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 22:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14295039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaelis/pseuds/Khaelis
Summary: John Smith hates public transport.Well, he used to.[Prompt Fic | Soulmate AU | Black Stain]





	Commute

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, back with a little Soulmate AU inspired by a Tumblr post - which bascially was, you have a black stain where your soulmate is supposed to touch you, and when they do, it gets its colours.
> 
> I liked the idea, so here is a little fill I hope you'll like!

* * *

 

 

God, how much he hated public transport. More particularly that one morning commute, when he had to ride that one bus that was always so crowded he had to fight his way through a horde of sleepy, irritable and rude people just to find that one blessed spot on that one filthy pole that had just enough space left for one more hand. Awful.

 

His only solace in this Styx was the tacit agreement, the one rule, the implicit decree that made it bearable.  _ Almost  _ bearable. No eye contact whatsoever. No smile, no greetings, no words, no sounds - apart from the occasional curses and snores, that is. That was fine by him. He had read the signs plastered all over the bus so many times sometimes he’d even dream about them - yes, his dreams were rarely exciting. Still, better to stare at those words for so long they became void of any sense after two stops than accidentally meet someone’s accusing glare.  _ No eye contact. _

 

He also had devised a little game of his own, for when the signs became so boring his energy was sucked out of his system and he turned drowsy. A silly game, but a game he quite liked. He looked at the shoes. That was usually enough to occupy his mind for the rest of the commute, and it was safe. No risk whatsoever to offend anyone with a haphazardous look.

 

He pretended not to be annoyed by the mountain of muscles standing behind him and poking him in the back with what must have been the handle of an umbrella, and he tightened his hold on his pinstriped jacket - he had found out after two rides that a bus, at this hour, was closer to being an oven than an actual bus, some kind of crematorium everyone still willingly stepped inside, like a herd of clueless cows en route to the slaughterhouse. Anyway, the shoes.

 

Ah, he recognized these. A pair of brown leather shoes. Probably your average businessman in his forties, single, because what kind of married businessman doesn’t own a car, seriously. A pair of fluffy slippers that oozed an odd smell he didn’t want to shell. That must be the old, very old lady that gets into the bus four stops after him, the old lady who swings her cane into people’s shins until she’s found the right seat and claimed it as  _ her  _ seat. A pair of brand new trainers, the white of the laces immaculate, the plastic bare of any creases. Maybe a student on his way to uni - he would know that if the trainers followed him when he’d get off the bus. And… 

 

Oh, these, he had never seen before. And they were just inches away from his, glued to the murky linoleum. Trainers, too, but worn and dirty. These trainers must have had a long life, already - not unlike the chucks he was currently wearing, the white rubber just as soiled as hers. Yes,  _ hers _ , if the thin line of pink running around the sole was any clue. Those were tricky. She could either be a teenager or a full grown woman, no younger than fourteen, no older than thirty - shoe size and shoe style, they mattered. But he rather liked the idea that she was about his age, so he took that for granted and went on with his analysis.  _ No eye contact _ , he should be safe to look just a bit higher than the shoes. Jeans. Very tight jeans around very toned legs and a very round... No, he should definitely lower his eyes again, now. Still, interesting. It was too rare an occurrence to find that kind of shoes not to daydream about the lady who was wearing them.

So, he pictured her. Twenty-five, soon to be twenty-six. Blonde, he liked blonde, maybe shoulder-length but tied into a messy bun, because he liked messy buns. Green eyes would be good, but he supposed a light brown could work, too. A round nose and full lips, the exact opposite of his pointy nose and lips so thin they vanished into the void whenever he smiled.  _ Compensation _ , he thought.  _ I need balance _ . He had never understood what was so beautiful about women who disappeared if they stood behind a bus pole at just the right angle - no, he wanted curves, he wanted  _ matter _ , he wanted a woman that wouldn’t shatter into pieces when he held her hand. And those thighs,  _ phew _ , those thighs definitely fit the bill. So did the rest of her body, he guessed, without knowing he would get to  _ feel  _ just how curved and soft she was.

 

The bus came to a full stop with the deafening sound of screeching tires that made the windows tremble, and his whole body was propelled forward, right into the owner of the trainers. He held for dear life to his pole, so his body simply curved towards her - he believed he could make a good pole-dancer for a second - and his waist bumped into the small of her back. And he felt it.

 

The burn that spread just above the line of his waistband, where his shirt had escaped his trousers and ridden up his abdomen. Where his soulmark drew a thin, irregular path, like a paint path brushed by a shaky hand. His heart ploughed against his ribcage as he dared to look down, not at the shoes, but at the black mark he wore. A black mark that was now a rainbow of colours melting into each other, like a puddle of gasoline on a wet pavement. The same kind of rainbow he noticed on the small patch of skin peeking between her pale blue tee-shirt and a brown leather belt.

 

He breathed in deeply and, sod the rules, he looked up. Her back was still to him, even as the bus was spurred into motion again. A messy bun of blond strands. A slender neck. A spine moulded under the garment that pointed to a  _ definitely  _ round… No, he would not look. He’d get to look until he got drunk on the sight later. Hopefully, not  _ too  _ later.

 

He was just a bit upset that she didn’t turn around - surely she had also felt her mark flare to life at his contact - but then again, meeting their soulmate on a crowded bus wasn’t ideal. Maybe she was shy. Maybe she had also signed the implicit contract and didn’t want to nullify it.

 

That was why he bent forward, his head above her shoulder, so close their cheeks almost met, and he pretended to squint and read the sign he already knew by heart.

  
  


“I hate to break the rules, but…” he whispered, hoping only she would hear him above the general hubbub. “Hello.”

  
  


She didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she took a step back to press her back against his chest, and found his hand that was still holding his jacket. She curled her little finger around his and he felt the strain in her neck as she fought the urge to look at him.

  
  


“Next stop?” she breathed out - and, oh yes, he fell in love with that voice at the first syllable.

“Next stop,” he confirmed.

  
  


He broke another rule that day, when he stared into her light brown eyes mere moments before the door opened. He almost didn’t make it out.

 

* * *

 


End file.
